


Toy Soldier

by ronandhermy



Series: Good Ol' Days [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Gen, M/M, Older Characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-01
Updated: 2013-10-01
Packaged: 2017-12-28 02:56:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/986840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronandhermy/pseuds/ronandhermy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A continuation of the Good Ol' Day's verse. </p><p>Ian battles PTSD and Mickey shows just how much he cares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toy Soldier

Mickey fucking hated these nights. Things had been going all right for a while, Gallagher hadn’t had an episode in over six months, but of course that just meant this one was going to be an extra bitch and a half. Even though the red head, who stubbornly refused to go grey before Mickey, wasn’t aware of it Mickey knew it was coming. Gallagher had been jumpy all day and agitated. Even snapping at Carl when he’d stopped by from his demolition job. Fuck, Gallagher hardly ever even scolded his siblings let alone actually flipped out at them. He wasn’t a Milkovich. Beatings weren’t signs of affection in that household.

Mickey had called Johnny, a younger kid who’d been in an out of the system his whole life and had just recently gotten out thanks to having that magical eighteenth birthday, and switched work shifts with him. Kid had been thankful to get a free weekend and no way was he going to go into work when Gallagher snapped and lost it. 

And he never lost it in quite the same way twice. Mickey had gotten better at handling it, even listening to Lip when he talked about PTSD and what was being done to treat it. Gallagher wouldn’t take any meds, not for anxiety or nothing, stubborn fuck that he was. But those first couple of times, when he’d been unprepared, he didn’t know how to handle it. No one really did no matter what those stupid pamphlets they handed out at the VA said. 

Thing was Mickey didn’t know what was worse: when Gallagher was screaming, reaching for a gun, reading to shoot anything, even himself, or when he got real quiet and small, curling up in a corner of the bed, refusing to move from under the covers. Either way, he was going to need Mickey. Just the ways things went. 

But when it happened it wasn’t either of those reactions. It was late at night and Gallagher had gone to bed agitated. Folding and refolding his training uniform until Mickey had snapped at him to turn the god damn light off and come to bed. Gallagher had grumbled with an underlying terseness but he’d done as Mickey asked. It surprised Mickey when the red head actually managed to get to sleep and he thought maybe they’d missed the bullet this time. 

Except no Southside kid was ever that lucky. Not even when they stopped being kids.

Mickey awoke to Gallagher screaming. Screaming like someone was killing his family and there was nothing he could do but watch. It was a desperate, raw scream that was more animal then human. Mickey was up and turning on the bedside lamp in a flash. Once the room had light he realized Gallagher was having a nightmare.

“Wake up,” Mickey demanded, going against all the instructional pamphlets and shook the younger man hard, “Wake the fuck up.”

Gallagher’s hands reached out to violently push him away and then Mickey was full out screaming, trying to match Gallagher’s cries, “Wake the fuck up. Get up, get up!”

After a few more minutes, Gallagher didn’t so much wake up as scream himself into consciences. Once aware he was no longer stuck in whatever nightmare land his messed up brain had created he got real quiet. Mickey let his hands rest lightly on Gallagher’s chest, feeling the rapid breathes the other man was trying to quietly take in.

And then the red head man was curling into a ball and sobbing. It wasn't just a gradual cry, a release from stress. No, this was a heartbroken ode to despair. And there was no stopping it.

“I can’t go back,” he finally gasped out, his tears leaking into his words.

He barely had gotten the words out before Mickey was hauling him into his arms. The older man held the weeping man in his arms, not gently, never gently, but with a strength that said he wasn’t going anywhere. Just like Ian fucking Gallagher wasn't going anywhere either. “You’re not fucking going anywhere,” the older man growled, a scowl etched onto his face.

“I dreamed,” Gallagher gasped, “I dreamed they made me go back. But I can’t Mickey,” and he was crying harder now, clutching Mickey in utter terror, “I can’t.”

“Gallagher,” Mickey tried, stopped, and then, gripping Gallagher hard enough to bruise, he said, “Ian, calm your shit. You’re not going back. If anyone ever tried to make you I’d put a bullet in their head before they could even finish that thought. You’re here for life. No more sand shitholes for you.” 

Ian nodded, burrowing his head into Mickey’s chest as he tried to suppress his sobs. Mickey just held on tighter and let his lover of over twenty years cry like a child in his arms. Because that’s what he was right now. A broken boy who wore the uniform of a good soldier. But Mickey knew better than that. And so he fucking let Gallagher cry. Because he may not be able to fuck up the shit-stains who had done this to him but he sure as hell could be here for the aftermath.

In the morning Ian would try to pretend like everything was fine and Mickey would let him. But that was only because he knew, he fucking knew, that Gallagher understood that Mickey was here for the long haul. This was it. They were it. And if that meant holding Gallagher has he sobbed because of the demons in his head, so be it. Not like a Milkovich to take the easy way out anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Any comments or Kudos are always appreciated :)


End file.
